


Eat Me, Drink Me

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/F, I Will Go Down With This Ship, One Shot, Porn with Feelings, Season/Series 03, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 08:42:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11710860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Yet another alternative outcome to the infamous dinner scene in 03x08, Goldfish.





	Eat Me, Drink Me

**Author's Note:**

> So I was inspired by a tweet by the lovely Twitter user, rabeisqueen, about Vera coming back to sleep with Joan in 03x08. Though this has been done before, I wanted to try my own hand at it!

At the Devil's door, Vera Bennett arrives with not a sacrifice, but an offering to pour on an unholy altar. Tonight, she intends on speaking her mind. She seeks to solve her issues as real people do: through _communication_.

Upon hearing the bell, she ceases preparing the meal, Joan Ferguson welcomes her deputy – her once **trusted** friend – into the comfort of her own home. It's a bold move forward for a woman who hides herself behind walls upon walls.

As though this is a doomed date for two, they let down their hair. The sheer, black blouse speaks in volumes. There's blush adorning Vera's cheeks or perhaps the rage accentuates them tonight.

Tension cuts like a knife. Vera holds the bottle of wine and hands it over. These days, her heart's begun to collect ice; it freezes her soul, leaves her numb. Jaded. Embittered.

Already, Joan's done a good number on her.

Pinot doesn't compliment the meal. Joan supposes that red fares better than white; the latter of which tends to be too crisp, too pure, for her refined palette. In awkward silence, they sit at opposite ends of the table. Forks and knives noisily scrape plates. They resemble an old, married couple forced to deal with the fallout on grounds for divorce.

"Vera, you know I always wanted to be more than a mentor to you."

She chews, she swallows, she speaks.

She organizes her thoughts in a mental catalog, desperately seeking the right thing to say – to patch up this wound between them, to fix this sinking ship.

Vera's gaze remains downcast; an anger disguised as hurt dwells deep down inside of her.

Caught in suspended animation, their utensils dangle mid-air.

"I value our relationship."

Joan crafts her monologue, but to Vera, it's drowning. White noise. Static. She hurts and she fucking _hurts_.

"Okay, stop."

The fork hit the table.

Joan sips her wine. Denies the allegations.

"I would have never done what you did to me."

Vera drinks the tart red. Lets it bathe her tongue along with the sickness she tries to expel from her lungs. Her anger typhoons, catastrophic and lethal. Joan's never had to bear witness to this from her deputy. It's new and unexpected; chalk it up to her rewiring.

“You have never cared about me," Vera shouts.

Suddenly, the serpent strikes. The older woman reaches across the frontier. In an attempt to show solidarity, she places her hand on top of Vera's slighter one.

“I do care." Joan emphasizes, patting her hand.

Her thumb swiped across the smooth flesh that is no longer as malleable as putty to her forward advances. Joan aspires to control the situation. The pendant beats against her sheer blouse. Against her now impulsive heart, reigned by the conflict of human emotion.

"I have Hepatitis C."

Joan flinches, her hand seeking solace in the folded napkin, its wrinkles resembling a bird's broken wings. Vera shakes her head: the slap, the needle, the mistreatment. It all blends together.

Last night did happen. Does happening. Is happening.

"Christ, you're treating me like I'm some-some _diseased_ **rat**."

It stings.

More than the slap, more than the blow to the trust they once shared, intimate and profound.

The chair legs moan in protest. She backs away from the table, away from the woman in the center of the room. From sheer frustration, her palms strike the table.

Joan flinches.

Flinches, of all things, before her disciple that's grown thunderous and rebellious.

They abandon the meal, the dinner's left to chill.

Vera takes her exit like a woman scorned, leaving a trail of fury in her wake. Before she reaches the door of the flat, that sonorous voice calls to her. Stops her dead in her embittered steps.

"Do not turn your back to me, Vera."

With her backbone as rigid as she can be, she glances over her shoulder.

"Do you honestly believe yourself to be morally reprehensible from everything, Joan?"

“As Governor, I have been faced with difficult decisions. If you were in my shoes, you--”

_Wouldn't last a moment. Would have done the same as eye._

The lioness bites down on her tongue. She stalks towards the prey that is no longer that. In a desperate ploy to get Vera to stay, her palm rests on her shoulder. She squeezes.

Mother Mercy incarnate, Vera offers one last chance.

Thus, not everything needs to be said again.

"Show me you care," her pupil makes her demand clear.

_Prove it._

“I-- Stay,” Joan relents. “ _Please_.”

Now, she chokes on her pride. Surprisingly gentle, Joan tucks an errant curl behind Vera's ear. As an homage to the old days, Vera obeys.

This time, Vera stays.

Neither of them make it up the stairs to the bedroom. The sanctity of that place remains guarded. They make their retreat elsewhere. In the den, they sit on the sofa with their glasses of wine refilled, perched on the glass coffee table. They sit in silence, the air an undercurrent of simmering anger.

Vera drinks the wine to swallow her hurt.

Long fingers caress the crystal stem, Joan's eyes fixated on the transparent basin that holds such a tart elixir. It's a distraction from the elephant in the room.

"I was--"

The words don't come out, the words won't come out.

Her jaw locks into place. Nostrils flare.

"-- _Afraid_."

"You didn't seem it," Vera observes.

With the intensity of her granite stare, Joan regards her underling as a specimen in a new light. The evolution of Vera Bennett is a shocking, albeit fascinating one: she flits in between enemy and ally, dancing in the undefinable gray area. Silence warrants the most appropriate response.

"You won't catch it from me."

Initially, they sit on far ends of the leather sofa. Alcohol inspires them to come closer – to click as magnets tend to do. Vera is the one to draw nearer. In anticipation, Joan leans forward.

"I am, ah, aware of the repercussions."

Funny how, after all this time, Joan struggles with her words.

The tables have turned. A role reversal is now put in place.

"Orally, you cannot infect me unless you have any open wounds I should be aware of."

Her jaw locks, her fingers twitch.

“Of course not!"

Vera's trust is paramount for the continuation of this outcome. She relies on the insistence rather than the eminent betrayal.

"This is... foreign to me."

Any of it, all of it: the tenderness, the intimacy, the heavy burden that is the heart.

"Is this okay?" Despite the surging anger, Vera asks for consent. Still cares after every fucked up little thing.

"I--" She catches herself. Hesitates here in the privacy of her own home. "... yes."

Shining, diamond eyes trace the bow of Joan's trembling lips. Vera makes the first move, Vera leads. Though she nearly falters, Joan finds herself leaning down to compensate.

The kiss tastes of anger, velvety wine, and need; perdition's but a touch away. Teeth work lips until their swollen and aching, tongues meet halfway. The softest of moans is issued; the source remains unknown. For easier access, straddles her lap. Her sinewy legs wrap around Joan's waist whilst her thumb traces listless circles on Vera's thigh. They touch like teenagers exploring one another for the first time.

A gentle caress of the hip. A stroke along the back of one's cheek.

It's broken as soon as it's been sparked.

"I want to see all of you."

Joan stands in the crossfire, in the headlights of Vera's expectant stare.

“Do as you may,” she grants permission.

Her eyes drift to the sheer cut blouse that contains a hidden meaning, some underlying context. The top comes off; the bra remains. Joan stops her there. While remaining meek, Vera nods at the unspoken agreement. She rolls those plentiful breasts in her hands that now resemble justice's divine scales.

Nimble fingers tantalize the curvature of Vera's spine. Sinew and muscle shift beneath such a deft touch. Somewhere along the way, their kisses resume, heated and borderline wanton. Joan no longer leads the dance; she relents to the power exchange, if only for tonight.

To her knees, the deputy falls. Vera looks up, her eyes bright yet hard. When did the switch first happen? Joan hadn't paid attention; she underestimated the cunning of her enemy: petty emotion cuts a hell of a lot more than any sword.

In reassurance, Vera's hands skirt up along the temple that makes her thighs. Blunt nails seize hold of the button of her trousers. She slides them down, easing along practical, black underwear in the process. Cool air washes over her. Joan fights off a shiver.

With some hesitance, Joan's hand falls to the back of Vera's head. To relent control, to express vulnerability, is a foreign concept. Her forearm, despite the strength there, trembles.

_What are you doing, Joan? Crush her._

In the den, Ivan's voice echoes inside her skull. It takes her back to childhood, pulling apart moth's wings out of curiosity, wondering why.

"I should stop-"

Despite everything, she still cares. Vera looks up, waiting for something more. A sign of approval, a sense of purpose, a belonging.

" _Don't_ ," Joan manages to breathe out, swallowing her pride, and moaning as an automated response.

Vera considers it an incentive to follow through

She worships the insides of those pale, ivory thighs. Leaves a string of fiery kisses in the aftermath of her passion. Her tongue traces those velvety lips before sinking inside. Joan's hand falls to the nape of her neck, nails gently scratching at the skin. She blows softly on her clit, wrapping her lips around the hardened bud.

An eager tongue works her clit, caressing the little nub in fluid strokes. She sucks, she mouths out her hurt through an intimate touch. Her fingers seek a warm embrace and Joan clenches around them with a gasp, her walls down, if only for a moment.

Vera drinks her fill: she works her jaw, her tongue, her lips.

The tears that flow come even as a shock to Joan.

"Just let go," Vera murmurs, her voice muffled by the pleasures of the flesh.

The monumental build up leads to the rollercoaster collapse.

 


End file.
